Birthday Blues
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Castiel takes Dean on a field trip. It goes slightly awry. S4.


Set sometime S4, but expect spoilers throughout that whole season.

I haven't been in the fandom for a while, so I'm not too certain of these characterizations. But this has been laying around for over a year, so I figured I ought to post it already.

This may read as somewhat slashy. It's not explicitly so; you don't even have to take it that way, but fair warning if you want to avoid anything like that.

* * *

_[I]_

Dean wakes up one day and realizes that he is seventy years old.

It's – odd, in a way, that this epiphany is accompanied by a hot redheaded waitress rolling over and licking _good morning_ into his naked chest, but come on. Dean just rocks like that.

And, he decides halfway into the following _good morning!_ (getting just a bit more enthusiastic now because this particular waitress attends a yoga class every Thursday and by _God_ does it show) sex, what does it really matter? It's not like anyone's going to know, and he isn't actually _old_. The redhead – Susie, he's almost entirely certain – is proof enough of that. So he gives himself up to the fun, which lasts for about another half-hour until Sam foolishly enters the room without knocking. It seems that in the forty – in the _four months_ Dean had been gone, and despite the several reminders since his return, Sam still doesn't remember all the one-night-stand rules (it's probably because he's too tired after being out with Ruby all night, Dean thinks but will never say), most important of which being _do __**not**__ walk blindly into the room if you aren't in the mood for a live porn show, even if it __**is**__ after ten in the morning, Sammy._

Dean kindly refreshes Sam on this point, in between Susie's long, wet farewell kisses. Also at the same time he's trying to get on his left boot and his t-shirt (who says he can't multitask?). Sam, hands still over his eyes, does not seem to appreciate Dean's tone but at least the offer of pancakes warms him up a little and Dean takes a moment to enjoy this scene. So far it's just like old times, which is more than he gets most of these days.

Of course, since he has now thought this he braces himself for some demon or (debatably worse, an angel) to pop up and involve them in some big battle.

Nothing happens except Sam rolling his eyes at Dean and telling him to hurry up already, so he does. But he keeps one eye open just in case, because in the back of his head he can't help but think that this is his seventieth birthday and forty of those years were spent in Hell, _something_ has to happen today.

_[II]_

Then again: Dean has pie.

He may actually be inclined to believe in a higher power that gives a damn right now, he thinks as the cherry wonder vanishes down his gullet, and that is predictably when the angel of the Lord appears.

"I di'n' reawy mea' i'," Dean says around about half a slice that he has managed to cram into his mouth mostly out of sheer will, then swallows manfully, pointing his fork at the angel's chest. "Don't you get all smug."

Castiel does that thing where his face doesn't move but you can see in his _eyes_ that he is perplexed and probably thinking that people really _are_ weird little mudmonkeys just like Uriel's always saying. It's kind of fun. More so because Cas always plays along without knowing he's doing it.

"I have not yet spoken," he points out in that solemn way he does pretty much everything. Dean shrugs and waves him into Sam's seat, knowing that the angel will probably have scampered before his brother is back from the bathroom anyway. Castiel sits stiffly, placing his hands flat before him on the table.

And because Dean doesn't really know what to say next and he is seventy today (or so he's figuring, because while he counted his _no_s, 10,954 of them, the never-ending torture may have thrown him a little off and once he said _yes_ he tried not to think at all. It was apparently ten years from then, which feels about right, but it probably wasn't ten years to the _day_. Still, if it was, then he is seventy today, according to his high-school math), he takes another huge bite of his pie. Castiel does that other thing he does where he just sits and _stares_ at Dean with that intensity that makes Dean think he is being known inside and out.

He always feels sort of naked around Cas, a feeling that has only intensified since he's learned that a) Castiel keeps an eye on his dreams and sometimes pops in to visit, and b) Dean is fairly certain that his own personal angel is stalking him. He seems to know pretty much whatever Dean does. And sometimes maybe what Dean _thinks_, too, which – yeah, total supernatural stalker.

"We have another task for you," Cas eventually says, and Dean makes great effort not to say _no shit, Sherlock_.

"Duh," he opts for instead (_oh, __**much**__ more respectful_, his mental Sam snarks and Dean tells him only the voices of people who aren't complete _dorks_ are allowed in his head), and wipes at his mouth with one of those rough paper napkins so common in these grease-holes. Then he burps contentedly, just to see the look on angel-boy's face. There is none, but it was worth a try.

"There is an urn you must retrieve," Castiel says, and hey this is interesting. Dean can see Sam emerging from the bathroom and Cas hasn't made any move to run away yet, which is unusual if not unprecedented. The angel goes on: "It contains the remains of a holy man, and we must dispose of it properly before the demons can reach it."

"And – I'm assuming this is another Seal, right – why exactly can't you do this yourself? Doesn't sound tough." Dean keeps an eye on the corner of the room, and spots the exact moment Sam notices the man sitting across from him. A little later than he would have hoped, but the kid's reflexes are good, gun and knife ready on hand and body language reverting straight to _hunter_ until he recognizes Castiel for who (or maybe _what_ is a better word) he is, and then Sam's posture just collapses, right into that I-pray-every-night-angels-_do_-exist-I'm-just-a-big-ol'-fanboy looseness that has somehow managed to stick even after meeting Uriel. Dean's not entirely sure how, but he thinks it's got a lot to do with Cas and that handprint-shaped welt on his shoulder, which he's not really comfortable with, but what can you do? Sam will get over it on his own and see the whole angel thing for what it really is, eventually, and Dean's not sure he wants to see what will cause that. They don't need less faith in their lives.

"It is a Seal," Cas confirms unnecessarily. "And we would already have taken care of it if the walls of the tomb were not covered in Enochian runes that act as a ward to our presence."

Dean rolls his eyes, and is about to say something like _hey, think I could get me some of those? _but right then Sam shows up and _shoves_ him further into the booth, sitting down next to him. "Dude!" Dean protests, but Sam is too busy being a _teenage __girl_ to listen.

"Um. Hi, Cas," he says, looking almost reverent as he uses the nickname. Dean rolls his eyes again and snorts for good measure.

Castiel removes his eyes from Dean's for the first time since sitting down; only to glance over and say, "Hello, Sam," before turning right back to Dean. Dean would laugh because Sam looks like the hot girl was winking at the guy behind him, but it's really just a little creepy to be the complete focus of Castiel's attention like this. Not that it's _new_, but that doesn't mean it isn't still kind of creepy. Especially when there are other people there, because that just makes it weirder that Castiel never bothers to look at them.

"Right," he says, to move the conversation along, "so all we've got to do is just grab this dead guy's dust, and then – what?"

"You will give it to me, and I will take care of it."

Dean sighs. "_Right_. Of course. Fine, whatever, let's get this show on the road. Come on, Sammy."

Cas stands with them, but his eyes flick briefly to Sam again and he says, "No."

"No?" Sam asks.

"This is a task for Dean alone," Castiel tells him without any further explanation and now it's not funny because Sam is looking like he's just been stood up and angel or not, Cas has _no right_ to mess with Sam –

Two fingers press against his forehead and by the time Dean is finished cursing, he is standing in sand.

_[III]_

"What have I _told you_ about that?" Dean snaps.

Castiel tilts his head to the side, apparently remembering. "You have stated that it is uncomfortable and you would prefer to drive. However –"

"No. No _however_, no buts, you can't just zap me around like that! I don't care where we're going, I can – wait, where are we?" Dean has to stop, finally taking in the sand and the heat. He peels off his leather jacket, and holds it awkwardly in one hand as he looks around.

It is _hot_, and sandy, and there seems to be a lot of hills, but the kicker is when Dean turns around and sees the tall ruins complete with a _Sphinx_.

"We are in Egypt," Castiel blandly states, but Dean knows he is enjoying this. "I believe it would have been difficult for you to drive across the Atlantic Ocean."

"You – you zapped me to – son of a bitch! Cas, you – " Dean falters, because what exactly can he say?

"This war is not limited to the United States of America, Dean. It concerns the whole world," Castiel finds it necessary to point out. The jerk. As if Dean didn't know that.

"Yeah, but – don't you have some other guy you can run around? I know you think I'm God's bitch and all but seriously, isn't there anyone else who maybe lives a little _closer?_" Dean can't help but remember geography from high school, or okay not, but he is thinking about globes and how you actually have to _spin_ them to get to Egypt from Illinois.

Castiel's eyes darken and Dean remembers the forty years in Hell. He's seventy today, despite being only thirty years old, and he knows what Cas is going to say before he says it: "There is no one else."

Knowing this doesn't make it any less stunning, though, and Dean is trapped, can't look away. Castiel takes a step closer, and his voice reverberates with something like shattering glass, like _I raised you from perdition_ as he says, "You are Chosen, Dean Winchester. You are The One who will stop the Apocalypse, and there is no other being in all of Creation who can fill your role."

Dean doesn't move, too busy staring at Castiel, who stares back at him with those _eyes_ that right now know everything about him, he's sure of it. And it's kind of awing that Castiel sees all that and still wants _him_, still truly believes that _Dean_ is The One, absurd capitalization and all.

(But Dean has spent more time in Hell than he ever did here on Earth and how can he really be Chosen by God after that?)

The moment eventually ends when Dean, feeling like a coward, changes the subject. "Okay, whatever – but why just me? Why can't Sammy come get this, this urn too?"

Castiel blinks, like he's forgotten Sam exists. Which – Dean _hates_ himself for even thinking it – is really sort of flattering. For the past four _years_ (or forty-four, depending), it's been all about Sam and Sam's destiny, ever since Jess. Everything they've been coming across has thought Sam was this great big-shot demon boy. And while that was never a _good_ thing obviously, it's something new to Dean that all these big powerful _angels_ are looking at the both of them and passing Sam right over.

It's flattering, sure, but at the same time unwelcome. Dean doesn't need or want a guardian angel; he'd be much happier if they _were_ all for Sam because then Sam would be safer, with Heaven on his side (and Sam was always the angel-loving one anyway, right?). Except of course, Heaven wants Dean to be its _soldier_, and no amount of calling him Chosen and saying he's going to save the world can change the fact that they see him as merely a weapon to be wielded.

Dean is – not _okay_ with that exactly, but he's used to it even if he doesn't want to admit it to anyone including himself (and really, both the all-about-Sam thing and the Dean-the-soldier thing have been going on practically since he could remember, it's not like he can't _deal_ with it), so he guesses it's not as bad as it could be.

Of course, it would be _better_ if Cas didn't do insane things like zap Dean halfway across the world to fetch some dead prophet's dust, but you can't have everything. He counts himself lucky he got pie this morning.

"This is not a task for Sam," Castiel says, and before Dean can get on his case about it, he continues. "The Enochian wards are not the only barriers in there. Sam would not be able to get any closer to it than I without severe consequences."

A million things race through Dean's head – _so it's his demon blood_ and _dammit, why, Sam_ and _but if it's protected from demons why send me at all _and _are you __**protecting**__ him_ and even, very briefly, _thank you Cas_ – but all he says is "Oh."

_[IV]_

Castiel doesn't seem to understand certain things, like heat for instance. Or how right now, Dean is boiling alive and seriously considering stripping down to nothing, only stopped by the thought of sunburn in _those_ places.

He keeps his leather jacket in his hand though, because if he's going to be crawling around in an actual Egyptian tomb it will probably get both cool and spiderwebby. And dark, which – huh.

"Cas?" Dean asks mid-exhale, panting more than expected. Though he took them halfway around the world in an instant, Castiel doesn't seem inclined at all to move Dean the final quarter-mile to the correct tomb and the hills of sand are tough to walk in. His heavy, silver-tipped boots probably don't make things any better.

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel, of course, isn't panting or sweating or looking affected by any of this at all. He hasn't even taken off his stupid trench-coat and despite knowing better, Dean's insides curl in sympathy. Maybe the vessel, Mr. Holy Tax Accountant, can feel the heat.

"Did you… at least…" Dean grunts as his foot slips but Castiel reaches out and catches his elbow before he falls. It's – creepy actually, given that Cas is still looking straight ahead and he caught Dean's whole weight perfectly with just three fingers, but still better than falling and rolling around in that sand. Probably. "Uh. Thanks. Did you bring me stuff?"

"Stuff?" And now Castiel does turn and look, and they're back to the _strange mudmonkeys_ non-expression from earlier, when really Dean didn't warrant it this time.

"Yeah!" he says, wasting some valuable energy to wave his arms around in the air. "_Stuff_ – you know, like a flashlight so I can see what the hell I'm _doing_, and maybe a good knife and my sawed-off, oh, and maybe some weather-appropriate clothing, all of which I could have gotten myself if you had just told me what was going on instead of zapping me over here in the middle of a conversation!"

Oh, God, the sun is killing him. And the expression on Cas's face is not hope-inducing.

"I… did not consider that," Castiel finally acknowledges, slowly. "Is there anything else you will require?"

Dean snorts, and then tenses when Castiel's hand lands on his elbow again. However, the angel isn't zapping him anywhere, just propelling him gently over the crest of the final hill, which is a little insulting in the implications but now it's mere _feet_ to delicious, delicious shade so all is forgiven. "Um," he says, "Just – forget the clothes, but I'm going to need that other stuff, and uh. Water. A couple bottles."

Castiel removes his hand from Dean's elbow and inclines his head in agreement, and then just as Dean turns to look at him fully, the sun gets in his eyes and he blinks and – Cas is gone.

How the hell does he always manage to _time_ it like that? Seriously, how does that work? Because Dean is getting kind of curious about the whole wing thing – he _knows _they're there _some_how, after that time they first met. And obviously Cas is using them to fly around, but it seems more like teleportation.

Although, whenever he takes Dean along, Dean can feel wind for an instant, and he can always hear this soft little whisper, so – it doesn't make sense. It's probably just another inexplicable angel thing, but then how does Cas hide it? And how does he time it so precisely, enough that he can come and go in a crowded diner and no one ever sees?

And… why does Dean even care? The sun must be getting to him more than he thought.

He sighs and makes his way down the hill carefully until he's in front of the great stone Sphinx. Then, unsure which structure houses the so-called holy urn, he is about to just go and sit down at the Sphinx's feet, when Cas appears again with the asked-for items. Including water. _Sweet water!_

"Give me that," Dean orders and snatches before anyone could be expected to obey. Castiel lets go of it freely, and tilts his head curiously as he watches Dean drink. He focuses particularly on Dean's Adam's Apple, seemingly intrigued by the way it moves up and down. Dean would comment snottily, but he's too busy dumping the rest of the bottle over his upturned head and sighing in relief.

Then Cas reaches out and catches a drop of water that slides off Dean's chin on a finger, examining it closely like it holds all the secrets of the universe, and Dean can't help but snort as he drops the empty water bottle on the sand (littering be damned!). "Dude. You are so weird." He reaches out and takes the rest of the things from Castiel's loose grip, grinning at their familiarity; particularly the long, wicked knife that he killed his first chupacabra with when he was seventeen. The hunt left him with a scar low on his right leg, although that's gone now. Thanks to Castiel's weird perdition voodoo, _all_ of his scars are gone, traded in for the big freaking handprint on his shoulder (and wasn't _that_ fun to try to explain to Susie last night). This knife has seen him through a lot though, even if he's been neglecting it in favor of Ruby's demon-killing one lately.

The sawed-off and flashlight are equally welcome sights, and Dean wastes no time putting the knife away before taking one of the remaining two items in each hand. Castiel is watching him again, which is no surprise. The angel still has one bottle of water, which Dean debates taking too, but he decides to leave it out here. Sort of like a reason to come back quickly, a motivator. He's already thirsty again so he's sure it will work just fine.

"All right," he says with mostly false bravado, turning to face the ruins. "This is gonna be awesome. Just like _Mummy_."

_[V]_

It's not like _Mummy_. At all.

For one thing, it is a lot less well-lit, mostly because there are no handy oil-soaked torches hanging on the walls. And Dean was right: it _is_ spiderwebby. Very, very much so, and he's glad again for the sawed-off if only because he can use it to cut himself a path.

It seems to be pretty deserted overall, no ghosts or demons for at least a quarter-hour of walking, which makes Dean wonder again why he has to fetch this thing. Maybe the angels are just being cautious, given that the other Seals seem to be breaking faster than even kids in a china shop could manage.

In any case, the whole experience is pretty boring for a while. There aren't even any snake pits or mystical doors to amuse himself with. But then, this is Dean Winchester and right when he starts to think it might be, he remembers that nothing is that easy: his flashlight goes out. Not naturally, as though from low batteries, but all at once and Dean instantly knows no amount of shaking it is going to do him any good. Something wants his light off, and whatever it is, it's not going to let Dean fix that: so he is trapped in the black.

Total darkness is not something that many people experience in a lifetime. Even Dean, who is no stranger to bad lighting, isn't used to it. There is _nowhere_ for light to come from, after all; he's been going downhill for a while and he has also turned quite a few corners.

Dean tenses, ready and waiting to be attacked by a ghost or some vicious Egyptian spirit that he's never bothered to research because he never thought he'd be jaunting around in _Egypt_. What appears, though, is different. It's like – sort of a pale light, and silvery, and it settles down over him in slow waves, kind of like snow. But somehow it doesn't actually make any real _light_ and Dean still can't tell whether his eyes are open or not. It's… soothing in a way, at first at least. It sort of reminds him of Anna.

Then he processes that, that it _reminds him of Anna_, and oh God he would be panicking right now but he _can't_, the light, the – he guesses it's some angel's Grace, and that is just so weird to say still – it's still washing over him, less soothing in favor of _strong_, stronger and stronger, and now it's forcing him to his knees, it's too _strong_ –

Dean isn't sure how long he kneels there, surrounded by the Grace, but it seems to just wrap him up tighter and tighter until he's gasping and shaking and thinking _no, no, not here, not like this, Sammy, no_… And then it washes over him even more, and Dean can _feel_ something in it, for a moment, and he thinks that this must be how angels feel, because it's so bright and perfect and _right_ and just too much for any mortal body, and maybe if Dean had faith in God he would be able to stand this but he doesn't, he can't, not now, not on his birthday after seventy years in Hell –

It wraps him up until he can't feel anything else and then it presses in and _burns_ and Dean really hopes this glowy shit isn't trying to angelify him or something dumb like that, because he sure as hell doesn't want to go junkless and forget about the joys of double-bacon cheeseburgers and leave _Sam_ behind, and when all is said and done, he thinks he will probably implode first – and he means that literally too, because it feels like fire all through him, glorious burning light.

But he doesn't implode, though he thinks he's screaming now and feels like he's coming undone at the seams. The light just keeps washing over him and pushing in and it fills him up until he can feel it _everywhere_ and then just it _bursts_ free, leaving him gasping and falling forward, just catching himself on his hands. He's in a pose now that looks like he's bent in supplication, praying when he _wasn't_, but he doesn't really think he can move anyway.

Next to Dean, the flashlight flickers, then blinks back on.

_[VI]_

Dean emerges from the tomb slowly, clutching the urn in one hand and bracing himself on the wall with the other, having lost the sawed-off where it happened and the flashlight as soon as he saw _real_ light. He feels bone-tired, though he knows there's not a scratch on him; things happened in there that the human body was never meant to withstand, and he feels like he's about to collapse.

Dean stumbles on the last step, and barely registers Cas, immediately at his side to catch him. The angel holds him by the shoulders and peers at his face in what Dean can't really believe is _relief_, until he starts to tip forward anyway and the angel has to shake him a little.

"Dean. Dean," he says, and there are definitely a couple notes of worry in that voice. Maybe enough for a song.

Dean giggles until he realizes it would probably be a hymn, then snorts sleepily. "Cas…" he mumbles, trying to drag his eyelids up, but it's been so hard just getting here and now that he's back out Cas has got him anyway, he can sleep now surely. Something pricks at his ears, a sort of buzz, and it tickles. "Hey. Hey, Cas."

He giggles again, feeling lightheaded, and Castiel briefly lifts one hand further up to press against Dean's cheek, frowning. "That is not the correct human temperature."

"'S called a fever, Cas, don't be a dumba –" Dean redirects himself mid-word, and says instead: "I got your, uh, urn. Thing. But we really need to, um…" He yawns.

"Dean. Look at me. Dean," Cas is saying again, over and over, but it's easy enough to tune out, and Dean decides to instead just slowly crumple, just fold himself down until he lays flat on the sand and can take a nap (and maybe, since sand's all shifty and stuff, it will be soft under him like one of those mattresses with the memory-foam). His ears feel like they should be popping soon, because that buzzing is more like a humming really.

Castiel is annoying though, continuing to catch him, hold him up with that angelic strength that means he doesn't bend at all, and Dean can still feel the Grace pulsing through him, _destroying_ him – it's more vivid and somehow more terrible than any forty years of Hell could be, and yet infinitely better because it feels almost like a blessing, a _benediction_.

"_Dean_," Castiel says, and Dean responds, eyes flicking up for a moment. He can see the angel's eyes, focusing in tight on him as ever, and nothing more is needed surely, he can sleep now right? he's so _tired_–

Castiel's eyes widen as he seems to understand something, and he maybe says something like _oh_ or _no_ but it was so soft he might not have and Dean can hear the buzzing, humming, it's _voices_ building, hundreds of voices getting louder and louder, and it takes a moment to register that he's actually picking up on angel radio, and it's breaking his head open, keeping him awake –

And it's such a mercy when Cas touches him, not with two fingers because he has no free hands, but pressing his cool forehead to Dean's, eyes still focused in.

All goes black before he can say _thank you_.

_[VII]_

When Dean wakes up, he is in a bed and the world is swimming around him. He moans and then the _voices_ are back again (he doesn't think they were ever gone), they are pressing in and _hurting_ and Dean knows, he knows he can't do this. Castiel broke glass and nearly his eardrums when he tried to talk to him and that was just one angel, and whatever the Grace has done to him isn't meant for _him_ at all –

He becomes aware that he is whimpering only when Castiel bends down from somewhere and cups his cheek in a cool, God, so cool, hand. Then Castiel opens his mouth like he's talking, but he's blurring into two Castiels and going fuzzy at the edges.

"Dean," reaches his ears, discordant and low but so much better than the fierce whine that is slamming through his head, and he breathes with his mouth open, panting.

"Cas," he says, "Cas, help me, it's too much, _please_." And even as he realizes that the only sounds coming from his mouth are whines and mumbles, Castiel nods.

Right, Dean remembers, it's his special stalker angel who reads his mind, and he laughs weakly, or thinks he means to at least.

"Shh, Dean," Cas says next, his habitual lack of emotion a little strained. "It will be all right."

Dean wants to laugh again at that too and say _great, now where's my chicken soup Mom? _but the _voices_ and Cas is there, bending closer and he just wants him to hurry up and make this _over_.

This time, Cas kisses him gently on the forehead, or if it's not a real kiss in the sense most people think of one, his lips are still at least touching Dean's skin. Dean's eyes slip closed before he can mention how gay that is, but he sighs in relief anyway, and he thinks he can still feel the cool hand on his cheek.

_[VIII]_

When Dean wakes up, the first thing he thinks is _holy shit angel in my face!_

Castiel watches his deep jump, takes it all in from about an inch away, eyes boring into Dean's own. He looks – he looks relieved, even the corners of his lips relaxing, his eyes softening. It is possibly the most expression Dean has ever seen on him.

"Dean Winchester," he says quietly, and his voice is filled with _awe_, "You are truly blessed."

Dean considers answering that – for a second, but then more pressing concerns hit him, like the retribution that is awaiting whoever smashed his head in with a crowbar, and why his ears are buzzing, and Cas in his _face_. And also the thought that yeah, Castiel is weird and says strange things but does he even want to know, really?

"Dude," he decides to say instead. "You're in my face, come on. Back off."

Castiel's lip-twitching turns into an honest-to-God smile for a moment (maybe? It was a very _fast_ moment). "Ah, yes. My apologies."

Dean sits up with a grunt as Cas backs off, and the angel reaches out like he's going to help. Nice of him, sure, but Dean is no wilting flower, he can get up just fine on his own, so he waves the hand away, turning to sit with his bare feet planted on the floor.

Huh. When did he take off his boots?

"Castiel," Dean says slowly, rubbing his head, "What exactly is going on here? I – I don't remember a damn thing after pie."

Castiel sighs.

"Casti – _Cas_. Cas, what the fuck?" Dean doesn't like that look, angels are not supposed to look _sheepish_, so why exactly is Cas rubbing the back of his neck and looking away at the floor?

"I – I apologize, Dean. I was not aware that you would be affected like this. Had I known…"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't screw with me. You would've sent me in wherever anyway, I know you guys. But – forget that, just tell me: how _did_ it affect me? And… what 'it' are we talking about, here? And where's Sam?" It occurs to him that, while a motel room, this is not _his_ motel room and none of his or Sam's stuff is there. Not a good sign, surely.

Castiel sighs again, but when Dean moves to stand, he steps forward and stops him. "No. You must rest."

"I'll show you _rest_ if you don't…"

"Fine," Cas sighs, a little angry. It's weird, how Dean's started being able to figure out his moods. To anyone else, Castiel would still just look somber, Dean's pretty sure. "I will tell you."

And then he starts talking about Egypt and tombs and holy men's remains in little pots and Dean _remembers_ –

"You lying sack of shit!" he interrupts, then makes a brief effort not to quail at the look leveled his way. "_Holy man's remains_, my ass! That wasn't any ashes, that was some angel's _Grace_ in there!"

Castiel inclines his head. "Technically, 'holy man's remains' is still a correct term for this particular Fallen angel's Grace, but – yes."

Dean gapes at him. "And you – what, didn't think I needed to _know_ that? Shit, Cas, it could've killed me!"

Castiel's eyes are somber and deep. They catch Dean's, won't let them go, and somewhere in there it looks like – _desperation_ – "It nearly did."

Dean… he's suddenly too tired to argue, to get enraged. He's seventy years old today, and God he's been tired for so _long_, all his life it feels like. He hangs his head. "Just… tell me, Cas."

And Castiel does. He explains it all, how it is a Seal, an important one, if demons can sacrifice an angel's Grace. How there is nothing protecting the Grace except for the Enochian runes and its own power, and a strong enough demon could overcome the Grace, Lilith could do it…

He explains how Sam could not come and Dean could not know, and only the one Chosen by God could ever hope to retrieve it alive, no other mortal could withstand passing through an uncontained Grace (it goes unstated that Sam would be destroyed in less than an instant because of the demon blood, and Dean actually might love Cas for that).

This is where Dean stops him. "Wait, wait, just a second," he says, lifting his head. "Hold your horses."

Cas looks puzzled. "I do not have any –"

"No, no, not what I – forget it. Just, that doesn't make sense. Anna's Grace didn't kill any of us."

Castiel nods. "Yes. However, Anna's grace was contained until the moment that it returned to her. It did not touch any of us, but returned immediately to her, meaning that the only thing you had to fear was its brilliance on finding her."

"Yeah, but wasn't this one contained too, in the urn?"

"No." Cas sighs. "The heart of it remained in the urn, yes, but the vast majority of the Grace was open in the tomb, and only a being of the utmost power could pass through its judgment."

"Or… me." Dean bites his lip, feeling – well, hell, Cas is as good as calling him as strong as an angel, and that's just – _weird._

"Yes," Castiel agrees, and catches Dean's eyes once more. "This is why you must believe me, Dean. I do not say that you are special just because I want to. I do not guard you without reason. I did not raise you from Hell for nothing: you have been Chosen to stop the Apocalypse. God loves you."

Well. Uh. _Damn_. And again: uh. "I – you know, Cas, I – you know I don't believe that…"

Castiel looks kind of sorrowful and irritated at the same time. "This is not proof enough for you? Why do you refuse to believe you are worthy?"

Dean frowns but decides not to tackle that right now. "Look, if I'm really so special –"

"You _are_."

Dean soldiers on, " –then why the hell did the Grace try to _kill_ me? It felt like – like it was burning me away, and I heard all these _voices_ –" He stops, realizing. "I heard you."

Castiel sighs. Again. Dean seems to have that effect on everyone after a while. "It was not trying to kill you, Dean. The Grace was attempting to speak to its brothers once more. It did not understand that your body does not have that ability, and by the time I took care of it, it was too late. You had already been forcefully granted the ability."

Dean gapes. "I really was – that was angel radio? You guys are – are not dulcet. At all. And I didn't hear a single harp."

"It would have destroyed you in time, Dean," Cas says seriously, "and your life until that moment would have been an unbearable agony."

"Gee, thanks Cas. The advance warning for that was _so_ thoughtful of you."

Castiel's eyes flash, and in an instant he is less than an inch from Dean's face once more (Dean thinks he may have used his wings, which is sort of cheating), and he looks _angry_.

Dean remembers Anna telling him that angels don't feel and she was great but he's thinking now she got some wires crossed. Because this is definitely emotion Cas is showing him, even if someone less acquainted with the angel might not be able to tell it apart from the rest of his expressions.

"I have already told you, I _did not know_," Castiel growls, glaring deep into Dean's eyes. "I had no intention of placing you in mortal danger, I had faith that you would pass through the Grace's judgment."

Dean opens his mouth to say something even if he doesn't know what but it clacks shut when Castiel reaches up and cups his cheek in one hand. It's kind of gay and also weird, but he thinks he _remembers_ this, and -oh.

"God _loves_ you," Castiel insists, "He did not let you die. And I –"

"You were," Dean says, and stops. Castiel is breathing hard, jaw clenching, and for a second he looks entirely _human_.

"I would not have let you die," he says finally, fiercely, and grips Dean's cheek a little harder. "I tried to – I would not have let you die."

_[IX]_

There are things that Dean can't explain, and most of them go back to Castiel.

He woke up from forty years of Hell, straight into a coffin, and he was disoriented, confused, and tired but – he was not a monster. He was not the creature that was on the path to becoming a demon, Alastair's little prodigy that even much of Hell feared.

He remembered it. And he knew that it was still there, within him like a messed-up Pandora's box, and that he still had that power, that monstrousness, and yet – it wasn't him. He remembered Hell, he _knew_ it and yet when he woke back on Earth he had not lost perspective. He knew what he saw and felt was real, that he was somehow alive and his priorities were straight from the beginning: find Bobby, find _Sam_.

That was probably Castiel's doing.

Another thing: his mother used to tell him that there were angels watching over him. And he knows things now, thanks to Cas and his little time-travel stunt. Like how she made a deal with Azazel and probably named Dean after himself, and maybe the only reason Azazel didn't go after him instead of Sammy is because he met Dean in the past and knew he wasn't the one, because Dean _told him_. And because of all this, when he thinks of his mother, his mother the strong irreverent hunter who didn't think twice about dressing up like a nun, he just can't see her being really religious.

And yet she told Dean that angels were watching over him and now, sixty- or twenty-six years later, it turns out that it is true. That he has a real life guardian angel, because whatever Cas says, Dean has cottoned on to the fact that he is being protected (and stalked). Oh, Castiel doesn't get in his way or do his dirty work, and Dean is still cautious, but sometimes he can just _feel _something wrapping around him, soothing him, taking him away from nightmares of Hell. Something kind of like (and he will never ever _ever _tell this to Sam) feathers.

_[X]_

There are other things Dean can never explain, but these things go back to Hell (and still Castiel, though, he can't seem to help it).

Hell is – it defies explanation, to tell the truth, but it's important to know that it defies any expectation as well, anything anyone still living could just dream up (and Dean _did_, in those months preceding). And for all of his time there – _all of it_, Dean was in the hands of its most prided torturer. Alastair was King in Hell, practically, and Dean knows it all.

Anything you can think of. Alastair had _thirty years_, he tried it all (but Dean doesn't doubt there was eons more, doesn't doubt that there was plenty waiting in the wings for him). There was hot and cold and blunt and sharp and slow and fast and personal and distant and not a single place on Dean's body remained untouched. He died every day, often multiple times – burned, his brain picked out, every bone broken, all the blood drained out, skinned down to meat and sinew, drowned on his own fluids, starved and withered in seconds, skewered, stretched, squished, boiled, peeled apart in the most literal sense, and _so_ much more, that was just the tip of the iceberg.

And then came the question, and when Dean said _no_, _screw you_, _stick it up your ass_, _**never**_, he was hale and hearty and hurting again until finally he just couldn't, _couldn't_ because nothing was worse than the torture, not even the anticipation of the torture, Alastair was just _that good_ at his job.

So Dean got off the rack and took his own turn. Ten long years of his own turn until nothing phased him, nothing stopped him, he was a pitiless _monster_ and Alastair would watch him proudly, would curl long hands around his shoulders and encourage him on and –

Castiel came.

He was not alone, something that Dean doesn't consciously remember but sort of knows anyway, he came in a legion of angels armed to the teeth and fighting hard and vicious and falling one by one under the sheer _numbers_. And in moments Dean was surrounded, was stuck right back on that rack and told to be a good boy and he couldn't do a thing while others fought over his fate. Castiel and Alastair, it eventually became, and Dean couldn't _move_ and neither was winning for a while. Until finally Castiel gained some minute advantage even as his last brother fell, and he didn't bother to deliver the final blow in favor of gripping Dean and _rising_, _yanking, burning_.

When Dean was in Hell, he saw demons for what they truly are, and the angels that came for him too he thinks, and although he doesn't remember, he still _knows_, somewhere deep inside. And that has repercussions.

He hit Alastair, the face of _everything_ he feared, with a crowbar. And Castiel lived.

_[XI]_

"Cas…" Dean says after a while, feeling overwhelmed, and it's like a switch went off.

The earnest expression dies instantly, and any hint of – of _emotion_, the sort of emotion that Dean is afraid to put a name to, is just. Gone.

Castiel steps back, looking steadily away. "You should rest," he says. "You can spend the night here in peace before I return you to your brother."

"But I – where am I?"

Cas flicks a glance at Dean, but it's brief and Dean can't shake the feeling that he's _running_. "Egypt, still. Specifically, we are in a – motel, I believe is your word – room in Cairo."

"Where's – no, nevermind. That's more than enough for me, I don't need a geography lesson," Dean says. "But, uh – how did you pay? How did you even _ask?_"

Cas looks kind of calmly bemused. It's the same expression he wore when Dean first ever greeted him with a knife in the chest. "I speak all languages, Dean," he says calmly. But still not looking over (or explaining how he paid, which makes Dean wonder if he didn't, if he used some kind of angel-fu to get them this room. If so, then Dean's sort of torn between respect for the practicality and laughter at the idea of God being a spendthrift and not doling out the pocket-money to his beloved sons).

"Okay… _Freaking cool_, but uh. Okay. Then can you tell me _why_ we're still here at least? Just send me back to Sammy already, he's got to be worried."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, Dean. It is not safe for you to be around normal mortals now, not so soon after… You need to stay here. I will come for you in the morning." He turns and meets Dean's eyes fully for a moment. "_Rest_."

And then Dean blinks and he is gone.

And Dean is left alone in an Egyptian motel room (which looks pretty much the same as the ones he's in all the time, except this one has just the one bed) with strict instructions not to leave or do anything other than 'rest' really, and a whole lot of questions.

Dean decides to willfully defy Cas and turns on the TV only to realize belatedly that he can't understand a word. And his phone, of course, doesn't have coverage halfway across the _world_, so he can't call Sam.

Oh yeah. This will be so _much_ fun.

_[XII]_

Dean does not always have the best sense of timing, sure. He realizes that. He also isn't particularly graceful unless he's fighting or fucking and even then 'graceful' is something Sammy would say; he'd just call it knowing how to move. He is a good guy (or so the angels tell him, but they say 'righteous man' because they like to sound geeky) but he has no qualms about most everything illegal and a hell of a lot of personal effrontery. Well. If 'effrontery' means a varied number of highly sexual things, at least, so, uh. Anyway.

The point is: Dean is – oh, and he stuffs his face, doesn't feel comfortable in tuxes, and isn't very capable of tolerating assholes no matter how high up the ladder they may be. Yeah. So he's no gentleman, not really. He's not, like, sophisticated or anything.

But Jesus, even he would have thought that he could do this shit better. But then, Cas provokes him. Castiel does _weird_ shit that he's not entirely sure is an angel thing; Dean thinks maybe Castiel is just weird on a personal level. And he doesn't know how to _respond_ to that, because while he'd normally go for anger or sarcasm and sometimes does still, well –

A lot of it is weird like last night weird, where Cas grabbed onto him and practically swore that he wouldn't let Dean die. It sounded like a promise and – oh God, Dean wants to not think about this, but how can he, it's not like there's anything to distract him here – a pledge.

Dean is mostly certain that Cas was – if not _forbidden_ to save him, at least strongly discouraged, but if he's got things right, the angel was saying that – that he would do it anyway. Which, um, well, _hell_. What the fuck _motivates_ a person to do that? Especially for someone like Dean, who they've seen at their absolute worst and who curses them out practically all the time?

So, all things considered, Dean's reaction when he steps out of the shower to find Castiel _rightfuckingthere_, his reaction is, well. If not _justified_, precisely, then at least understandable.

"Holycrap_angel!_" he shouts, and punches Cas in the nose. Which doesn't do anything but possibly break one of his fingers, and he swears again, snatching at a towel.

Castiel tilts his head to the side and blinks at Dean, who is still recovering from the heart attack.

"J-_Je_sus, Cas, don't _do_ that," he gasps, latching the (too tiny for comfort) towel firmly around his waist and looking back up at the angel. Who is practically touching him, he's so close, and Dean is 95% naked and wet and feeling especially vulnerable and still a little whacked about yesterday, so, "Cas. Personal space, _please_."

Castiel takes a moment, before his eyebrows come together slowly. "What is personal space?"

And then Dean groans and has to teach his angel all about the Bubble, complete with forceful demonstration, until he is no longer jumpy and ill at ease, which is… convenient, among other things.

He's sitting on the bed and pulling on his shirt when things get serious again, with Castiel watching blankly from an appropriate distance, and Dean's head going _this is where I sat when _and surprisingly enough Castiel starts things off.

By – and there's no other way to interpret this, which makes him the _worst_ kind of stalker ever – reading Dean's mind.

"Anna was not lying," he says slowly, looking like he's picking his words carefully. "But… she did not understand the whole truth, I think."

Dean, well, he really does want to know what the hell was going on yesterday, so he doesn't say anything. Just arches a brow, tugging his shirt down over his stomach and giving Castiel his complete attention.

This seems to encourage the angel, as he sounds surer of himself when he speaks again: "We – angels do not _feel_, in the same sense that humans do. We don't have the same range of – of natural emotion or reaction. But we are born with love in our hearts for our Father, and we do have free will to an extent, which requires some level of –" he struggles again, and for half a second Dean has a weird image of Castiel with wings, which would be fluttering in irritation right now, like a really oddly-shaped pigeon. Like, with that whole 'ruffled feathers' thing they do, where they sort of shift them around and… And nevermind. Not important.

Castiel takes a breath, starts again. "And while we may not start with human emotions, certainly not with the same intensity, they are still – there. Just not… accessible, at first. It takes, not practice or effort, no, but…" Castiel's face darkens slightly as he searched for the word, but he keeps talking as though he _didn't_ just pluck two more words out of Dean's head and answer as though they were spoken aloud. Those angels, man. "I believe that it takes human exposure, so to speak, for angels to truly feel, or express, their emotions in a way you could understand. This is why many higher – why other angels may seem _cold_ to you."

Cas stops like he's made his point, but he's still a hop, skip, and a jump away from where Dean wants him. …Which sounds wrong in _several_ different ways, but nevermind that.

"So… you're telling me that Junkless is a dick because your Daddy doesn't let him out to play with the mortals down the block often enough?"

Cas winces, if it's possible to wince with one's eyes and nothing else. "Well… Uriel is a. Specialist. He has never really…"

He trails off and Dean only takes pity because Christ, those eyes could rival _Sam's_. And also Cas probably doesn't want to admit what an asshole his brother obviously is. "Fine, whatever, I get it. So, uh, what does this have to do with last night, exactly?"

Castiel just looks at him, has never _stopped_ looking at him, and Dean doesn't know that he ever will. He feels like something is bursting open in him, or maybe getting stitched back together; and the thing is, this isn't just some weird girly crap that Sam might say, it's _real_. Castiel pulled him out of Hell, and Dean doesn't know what he had to give up (_except he sort of does_). And it's – just – he knows without looking when the angel is there, if he has a few seconds to figure it out anyway, but no other angels. And even if he's fairly certain that he's beginning to hate the whole institution of Heaven, Cas is just _different_. There's no getting around that fact, around the fact that there's this… connection there.

Which sounds stupidly sappy but in real life is actually more alternately awful and kind of relieving.

"You know what," Dean decides suddenly, and stands up. He walks over to Cas, swallowing awkwardly, because the angel might not get how _weird_ this is but he for one will always know.

Castiel blinks as Dean approaches. Then, hesitantly, like he's being tested, he tries out the words: "Dean, you are advancing into my personal space."

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "Yeah, I know, but sometimes it's – if it's okay with you then it's fine."

"I do not mind."

"Okay. Okay then," Dean says, and swallows. He wouldn't do this with anyone else, but there's a sort of freedom that comes with someone who you already know can see everything going on in your head. He doesn't have to worry about being embarrassed, or at least Castiel won't ever intentionally embarrass Dean. He just – sees Dean, all of Dean, and it doesn't even occur to him that some parts aren't cool or whatever. He just knows that it's _Dean_, and that's enough for him, Dean thinks.

And that makes this okay, if only because Cas hasn't abused that yet. He sends Dean out on missions, pops him around the world without a thought for Dean's opinion, but then he goes back to fetch Dean water. He forces Dean to make horrible choices, but then tells him after he doesn't envy him those choices. Tells Dean his secrets, tells him that he has doubts. And he will never tell anyone else this secret of Dean's.

Dean doesn't think he could bear it if Uriel was the one to yank him from Hell, because Cas – because of _who_ Castiel is, beyond being an angel of the Lord. And that's why this is okay.

In theory.

"Okay," Dean says a third time, then takes a deep breath, and – pauses. "You're not, like, reading my mind right now, are you?"

"No."

"Oh. Good. So," Dean lifts his eyes up to meet Castiel's, and suddenly he's not nervous anymore. His voice gains strength as he lectures: "Listen. Angels are dicks. No, don't talk; just listen. You're dicks. All of you. And I don't like you. I don't care to be your little puppet on Earth, and I'm definitely not buying that whole 'I will be rewarded' crap. Just – no. Oh, and I still don't believe in God, by the way."

Castiel's face takes on that annoyingly familiar expression, halfway between self-righteousness and pity, which Dean decides to label his _oh, Dean, will you never understand?_ face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dean cuts him off. "Wait! I'm not done."

He takes another step forward, until he reaches the point where he is, like Castiel earlier, practically touching the other figure, and stabs an emphatic finger into his messy tie. "_But_. You, on the other hand…" Dean pauses, and Castiel's eyes are practically _glowing_ with sudden interest. "Look, all I'm saying is, you probably know me better than anyone else, well, ever. I mean, even Sammy now, he's not… Well, for one thing he doesn't stalk me, or invade my dreams or my thoughts."

"Dean, I do not _stalk_ you," Castiel begins, but Dean can't wimp out now (and Cas totally does anyway, there's nothing to even argue about there).

"But he also hasn't seen me in Hell, like you did. I don't – I don't really remember it. Not when you came to get me. But I remember most of it – forty _years_ of it, and I know what I became. I'm – I'm _old_, maybe not by your standards, but sure as hell by humanity's, at least in terms of what I remember. I have been going for way too long, Cas. And I – I honestly don't know how much longer I'll be able to stand it, to keep on fighting. I've already broken once, it will probably happen again.

"But the thing is, you _saw_ it happen last time, didn't you? You've got all that crazy angel mojo going on, you saw me go dark side and you brought me back. I have no idea how, except that it apparently requires the far-freakier alternative to a friendship bracelet, but one scar's a small price to pay, right? Especially since you got rid of the rest of them, somehow. But anyway, you. You _will_ know, right, won't you? You'll be able to tell?"

Castiel looks like he's beginning to get it, but Dean apparently still isn't being clear enough for him, because he says, slowly, "I'm not sure what you're asking, Dean."

"When I mess up!" Dean snaps. "When I give in, get too tired, I – listen, I'm not asking Castiel the angel. I'm asking _you_, Cas – I need you to tell me when I'm really _wrong_, because I have to be strong. I can't let Sam see me being confused or tired or, or giving in, but you'll be able to tell anyway because you've seen it before. And you can _tell me_, you can stop me if you have to, because I know you're strong enough. But you have to only step in when _I_ would have stopped myself – do you get it? Not as an angel. But as…"

Castiel is _looking_ at him, and Dean can feel his face heating up, but godammit the guy as good as said yes already. Yesterday, even if he didn't know it. "I need to be able to count on you to do this for me," Dean finally says, blushing, "as a friend."

And then Castiel's eyes widen and his mouth opens slightly and Dean finds himself relaxing even before the angel nods, wordlessly. Because he looks kind of like Dean just handed him the Holy Grail, which is embarrassing in a different sort of way.

But a part of that load is off his shoulders. Castiel has told him that Dean has the world's fate resting on his shoulders, and now that weight is lessened, just the _tiniest_ bit, but that could be enough. That's what matters, not Dean's pride or shame.

Dean grins, shoulders dropping, and is even moved enough to throw an arm around Castiel's shoulders briefly, in what some people might call a hug but he prefers to say is a slap on the back. "Thanks, man," he says jovially, even though Castiel is still gazing at him with nothing less than pure _awe_ (and Dean sort of wants to check and see if he's spontaneously grown a halo or something, but he resists the temptation).

"Alright," he says, stepping away, looking away. "Now that we've got that out of the way, can we go back home? I never actually got to finish that pie, and Sammy's got to be shitting himself after two days without contact."

_[XIII]_

Despite what he said, Dean does not actually believe Sam is crazy with worry. He's definitely going to be worried, sure, but he seems to think that Castiel can do no wrong (which is a very stupid thing to think, considering that he's seen the angel all of what, twice?) so he probably isn't stressing too much about it. Most likely, Dean thinks, Sam will be moping about how Cas doesn't even _look_ at him, so clearly he has to go drink demon blood to feel better about himself. Like high school all over again, with a biblical twist.

So it's a pleasant surprise when Dean opens the door to the motel room and finds Sam jumping up from one of the beds, looking almost as relieved as Cas did last night (though it shows considerably more on his face and in his body language). "Dean!" he says, and moves quickly toward him –

He stops, just before he reaches Dean. It's like there is this invisible barrier between them now, which is… sad. But on the other hand, Sam is actually _here_, and he looks supremely relieved to see Dean alive and well, so Dean thinks he will let his little brother off the hook just this once.

It's probably some leftover angel juice, because there's no way Dean would be this generous normally.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, flopping down on his bed. "Guess what time-efficient method of round-the-world travel I recently discovered, and won't you love to know where Airplane Cas took me! Hint: I already showered, but I think there's still sand in awkward places."

By the end of the story, Sam is looking a little freaked out even though Dean leaves out all the best bits about Cas being strangely intense and himself strangely girly. Sam eyes Dean for a while, apparently apprehensive about the lingering effects of being date-raped by angel juice, and even though Dean assures him that it should have no ill effects anymore he keeps a bit of a distance.

Right, Dean remembers and can't believe he didn't get it already. Demon blood and angel juice, probably not a good combo.

Still, Sam is fascinated with the whole bit where Dean eavesdropped on the angels, even though he insists again and again that he was too feverish to remember anything, which prompts Sam to insult Dean's memory. Which drags up thoughts of seventy years but all Dean says is, calmly, "That's because I have too much sex. _You_, on the other hand…"

Things go downhill from there, especially since next thing Bobby calls them and they have to leave _now_, no time to visit the diner of pie-all-day, which, Dean thinks, would have been the perfect end to the day.

…Things swing rapidly uphill once again though, when Dean opens the Impala door to find a boxed but still warm and savory pie sitting on his seat (shotgun, because despite all the forced rest last night, he's still kind of sleepy). Mmm, apple this time.

He doesn't even have to ask if Sam did it. He knows better, so Dean just grins and lifts the first slice in the air before biting in. A toast to his friendly invisible stalker.

Maybe being seventy isn't too bad after all, Dean thinks in the end, and begins to improvise a metal version of "happy birthday to me" complete with humming and energetic drumming (mostly because Sam has no idea what he's doing and is getting more and more annoyed at him).

After all, there is pie.


End file.
